Realization
by StarFormerAdira
Summary: Italy's been acting - well, extra-strange, and it's up to Germany to find out why. The problem however, was something he didn't expect, and the solution came faster to him than he thought. A birthday present - slash, Germany/Italy.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is a birthday present for my awesome friend and the best beta an author could ask for – GoldenJuiceBox! I can't draw for fizzy jelly snakes so I'm going to write you a fic instead, and luckily, I can do that. I would normally do human names, but I think that constantly typing 'Feliciano' would get a little tiring, and nation names are easier to read about, so here you are. All for you, sweetie! **

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**Realization**

**Chapter One**

Germany had always wondered about Italy's curl.

He'd never asked before, of course. He had always taken it for granted. It was just a feature that both the Italian brothers shared, and whatever secrets it held, they weren't for Germany to know. But lately, ever since World War One had ended, Italy had tried to attract Germany's attention with it, for reasons known only to him. While they were talking with Japan, he would be constantly reaching up to wind it around his fingers, and then stopping almost immediately when he realised what he was doing. Naturally, Germany would wonder about this, and Italy must've suspected it, because he began doing it more and more when they were alone together.

Germany had seen Spain and South Italy together, and the former nation always seemed to have a bit of a thing for his Italy's curl. In the middle of world meetings, he would lazily reach out and gently run a finger along its length. South Italy, of course, would slap his hand away and fire a volley of insults at him, but for a few minutes afterward, his face would be pink and he would very determinedly stare at the table, not contributing to the discussion at all. Spain knew exactly what he was doing – whatever that was – because he'd lean back with a satisfied smile on his face and look at his nails in a smug way.

Germany always suspected that they had sex later on.

His Italy, North Italy, had never made much of a secret of the inner workings of his extreme hair, but then neither Germany nor Japan had ever asked about it, either. They had formed a sort of bond that way – accept the flaws, and don't ask about the ones you've noticed. It wasn't very good, but it had worked up until now, and they had almost won WW1 with it, too.

Now, however, Germany's curiosity was aroused, and Italy wasn't doing anything to stop it.

It was sort of taken for granted that North Italy lived at Germany's house now. Germany had protested at first, but after Italy had just kept coming back after he turned him out, he eventually decided that as long Italy kept making nice pasta and not allowing his brother to visit too often, he could stay.

And that arrangement had worked, for a little while, too.

But Italy seemed to be taking things way too personally. Well, way too personally that he normally did. More often than usual (and usual was quite a lot of the time) he was cropping up in Germany's bed, having sneaked in their after the occupant had fallen asleep, and lunchtimes were another thing too. He had started out at the end of the table, but somehow, over the course of their living together, which hadn't started that long ago, he had gravitated across until he was sitting right beside Germany.

Germany hadn't complained. He knew Italy. He knew his weird and sometimes questionable ways. He hadn't asked at all.

But now, that thing with the curl...

Short of asking Spain what the hell it was, Germany was at a loss for what to do. He realised that if he talked about it to his Italy, all he would get were vague answers and the occasional shout of "Pasta!" or "Ve!"

He had to take matters into his own hands.

So he sat down and he thought.

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Italy came skipping into Germany's house after a nice, long walk with Japan and immediately went straight for the pasta. He didn't notice the blonde-haired country approaching behind him, and almost fainted from shock when the deep, heavily accented voice echoed around the kitchen.

"Italy?"

He spun around, clutching the pasta bag to his chest. "Ve – Germany! You startled me! I was...just going to make some...pasta..."

He trailed off at the look on Germany's face. There was something in those eyes – something he hadn't seen before, and while it didn't frighten him, it did send a shiver down his spine. Germany took a few more steps until he was invading Italy's personal space – which the Italian did every day, by the way – and there was no way the other country could wriggle free. Italy looked down, unable to face that calm, understanding, and yet fiercely dominate expression that Germany was wearing so well.

Germany's hands came down on the counter behind him with twin _thunk_s and, just like that, Italy was trapped.

Germany knew. He must know.

The brown-haired country began to tremble, and the pasta bag slipped from between his fingers. Germany watched him carefully, cataloguing his responses with that perfect tactical mind of his, watched the tears gather at the corner of his amber eyes and threaten to spill over.

"Italy..." he began softly, and that was when Italy panicked.

"I'm sorry!" he shrieked, throwing his arms around Germany's neck, burying his face in the broad chest, his shoulders heaving with desperate sobs. "Please, doitsu, I'm so sorry! Forgive me! I couldn't help it! Please don't kick me out, I'll be good, I swear, I'll do anything, but don't make me leave Germany! I like it here! I like being with you! And – and –"

Whatever Italy was going to say next, he couldn't manage it. He took a few deep breaths, his mouth working furiously, and then he burst into another round of tears, staining Germany's shirt with the salty drops.

Germany sighed. He really wasn't very good at this...this whole _feelings _stuff. If only Japan was here to calm Italy down – but no. He could do this. It was his problem, and his solution. Over the years, he'd learned how to handle Italy, and all he had to do was remember what he had observed.

He gripped Italy's wrists and pulled them from around his neck, bending down and quickly snatching up the pasta bag before stuffing it into the other country's shaking hands. Italy clutched it like a lifeline as Germany forced him back into a chair, and gradually his hysterical weeping faded into tired sniffs as he used his shirt sleeve to wipe his nose.

Germany handed him a tissue.

"Thank – thank you," Italy mumbled, his voice punctuated by the crackling of the strangled pasta bag. "D-doitsu."

"You're welcome, Italy," Germany replied gently. "Just calm down, okay? I'm not going to turn you out. You can stay here. It's not a problem."

Italy looked up at him hopefully, his eyes already watering again.

"You should have told me sooner," Germany continued, pulling another tissue out of God knows where and giving it to the other. "We could have avoided this. But now I know, and we're going to continue life like it never happened."

He had thought that this would reassure, and maybe even cheer up Italy, but instead, the brown-haired nation glanced down at the floor, more tears rolling down his cheeks. "But...does this mean, doitsu...you don't love me too?"

Germany stiffened.

Well, at least his plan had worked.

He hadn't known. He hadn't had the faintest clue what all these signs Italy was sending him meant. Even after a few hours of straight, full-on thinking, he still hadn't managed to come up with any possibilities to explain Italy's behaviour.

That didn't mean Germany wasn't an expert in _other _areas.

Italy wasn't going to tell him if he just asked, so what if he _pretended _he knew? Then Italy would want to talk about it and, hopefully, would reveal whatever the problem was, and Germany could take it from there.

Except he wasn't expecting it to be such a _big _problem.

_Italy...loves...me?_

And because he was making such a big fuss out of it, Germany suspected it wasn't like the normal 'love you like a friend and an ally who has the bad sense to put up with me'. It sounded like the not-very-normal-at-all 'love you like a lover'. As in, 'love you like England pretends he doesn't to America'.

Then, of course, there was the million dollar question: does Germany love Italy back?

Italy, lover of pasta, defector of wars, brother of the tomato addict – did Germany love him?

But he had never thought about it before. He had never thought of Italy _that way, _just like he could never think of Japan that way. They were family, they were allies, they were the Axis Powers.

_Germany, do you love me?_

"Yes."

Italy glanced up, still crying into the first tissue, saving the second for an emergency. All he wanted was to escape and make some pasta and maybe forget about what had just happened, but Germany wasn't letting him. He was standing there like a statue, staring at some point over Italy's right shoulder, completely ignoring the amber-eyed nation before him.

But then he'd just spoken, and Italy had no idea what he meant.

"G-Germany?" he squeaked hesitantly. "Ve...Germany?"

Germany blinked and looked down at Italy. He had initially looked confused, surprised, shocked – but now he looked like he had discovered the cure for cancer and global warming at the same time. He looked like he was in control again, and that was the Germany that the Italian wanted to see.

"Italy...I'm sorry."

No. No, he couldn't have said that. It wasn't fair, it wasn't right. Italy had risked everything trying to get Germany to feel the same way, had spent sleepless nights imagining the consequences, and it was all for nothing?

"No," Italy sobbed, burying his face in the tissue while cuddling the pasta bag for comfort.

"I'm sorry I couldn't tell you sooner."

Italy raised his head, hardly daring to believe it. Germany was staring at him, his eyes full of kindness, his expression full of determination. He leant forwards, reaching out and tilting Italy's head slightly.

"I'm sorry it took me this long to figure it out."

The last sentence was a whispered promise as Germany's lips brushed, very gently and tantalizingly, against Italy's.

He did love Italy. He loved Italy so much.

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**I did not originally plan this to have two chapters, but at this point on a Sunday, what the heck? Have two! Double birthday present! :D**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I think I did quite well, considering I had a deadline! This is for GoldenJuiceBox but the rest of you are extremely welcome to read it too, and reviews are much appreciated. This chapter contains slash – resounding echo of 'YAY' – so if you don't like, don't look. **

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**Realization**

**Chapter Two**

_Germany loves me._

Never had Italy felt so extremely blissful than he did now, with Germany kissing him so hesitantly and so softly, safe in the knowledge that as his heart started to beat faster, Germany's was doing the same.

The pasta bag fell to the floor as Italy reached up and pulled Germany closer, his tears already forgotten in the heat of the moment. Their mouths warred together, growing more confident as they familiarized themselves with each other, mapping features, calculating responses.

Well, at least, Germany was. He didn't want to mess this up. His stomach was a weird mess of nerves, like snakes writhing and twisting, he was so scared of upsetting Italy. He didn't want this to go wrong. He had waited too long, afraid of his own feelings, for this moment, and if it slipped away from him – he didn't even want to think about it.

Italy was extremely intelligent when he wanted to be, and as he kissed Germany back, he began to speak, "Germany's scared. You're scared, aren't you, doitsu?"

Germany pulled back and looked at him, deep into those wide, innocent eyes. "Italy..."

Italy smiled and touched Germany's mouth with one fingertip. "Germany doesn't need to be scared. I love you. We'll make it work."

Germany was going to speak – to protest? to ask how? – but he didn't. He trusted Italy. If the brown-haired nation said that they would make it work, then, one way or another, they'd find a way. All Italy was asking for was faith.

So Germany smiled back. "Yes, Italy."

He suddenly ducked down and swept Italy up in his arms. Italy was surprisingly light, despite all the pasta he managed to eat every single day, and he giggled happily as he found himself cradled close to Germany. He kissed Germany's cheek, laughing like a carefree child as the other country carried him from the kitchen, down the corridor and up the stairs, to the room that Italy had decided, long ago, that they shared.

Germany had made the bed this morning, but he realised that sometimes his efforts were going to be wasted, and he shouldn't worry about it.

As Italy was dropped unceremoniously on the bed, he kicked off his boots and sat up, trying to rip his jacket off, but Germany stopped him, leaving his own shoes on the floor and swinging his leg over Italy's waist. The Italian stared up at him as Germany began to unbutton the other's shirt, his fingers fumbling but his teeth gritted, until finally he had both it and the jacket in his hands. Italy lay before him, bare-chested, not saying a word, just letting Germany do what he wanted.

He had no idea just how arousing that was.

The blonde-haired country leant forward and captured Italy's lips in another kiss, this one harder and more demanding than the first. Italy reached up and pulled Germany's tie away, throwing it over the other's shoulder as he began to relieve Germany of his shirt and jacket, returning the favour.

"Italy," Germany breathed, and the other nation stopped, looking up at him questioningly. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

He knew it wasn't just him. Everyone thought of the Italian as innocent, free, not burdened with the doubts that the others felt. Sometimes Germany transpired to be more like him, at least for a day, and he always failed. When you weren't Italy, you could never achieve that level of relaxation that he always managed to, even during a World War and with your people's lives at stake.

He didn't want to ruin him. He didn't want to be the reason that Italy became who he wasn't.

"Doitsu," Italy half-sang, gripping Germany's wrist and pulling his fingers up to his mysterious curl. "I want this. Please, I want _you_."

And with that, he let go of Germany's hand and let him stroke that rounded strand of hair that had so confused him – up until now.

Italy let out a throaty, heated moan as Germany let his fingertip gently trace along that length of brown hair, and arched his back, pressing up against the other nation. Germany breathed in sharply as Italy's groin rubbed up against his, creating wonderful friction that sent heat trickling down his spine, but he watched with amazement as Italy's expression turned to one of complete and utter bliss.

He leant down and gently kissed Italy's neck, his hand still on the curl, letting his tongue smooth over the pale, sensitive skin. Italy gasped and tilted his head back, allowing Germany better access to his neck. With his other hand, Germany reached down to slowly unbuckle Italy's belt, pulling it away while still keeping the other nation distracted.

Italy only became aware of Germany's actions when he felt the fabric of his trousers sliding down his skin and he quickly searched for Germany's familiar face, but just then, the talented fingers that had been softly caressing his curl turned hard and unforgiving.

Italy screamed as pleasure coursed through his body and he pulled Germany closer to him, relishing the sensation of Germany's half-naked torso brushing against his own, sending tingles down his stomach. Sweat was already running down his brow, and he half-thought of raising a hand to wipe it off, but then Germany moved up and started kissing along his hairline, his tongue poking out and tasting the salty droplets that had gathered on Italy's forehead. Italy shuddered and ground himself against Germany, relishing in the startled gasp that it produced. The one hand that wasn't currently clutching the other nation to him slid downwards, scrabbling frantically at Germany's belt as, time and time again, Italy was brought dangerously close to release at the simple way Germany was treating his curl.

Finally, Italy was able to yank Germany's belt away from the loops and carelessly throw it over to the other side of the bed, but only with the blonde-haired country's help. He then yanked Germany's trousers down, to around his knees, where Italy's currently were, and arced his back again, purposely pressing seductively against Germany.

Germany, however, was wise to Italy's newly-found methods and simply pushed back down, their members rubbing together, making Italy throw his head back in ecstasy. He could feel himself getting stiffer, and Germany placed one more kiss next to his left eyebrow before raising himself back up, looking down at his lover with a wonderfully husky expression.

Italy let out all his breath in a tense, excited gasp as Germany removed his hand from his beautiful curl, tracing one finger lightly down the pale skin on display below him. Italy was breathing heavily, but he wanted this – he wanted this _so much_, and he whined desperately, but Germany just placed one fingertip on his parted lips and his other hand...

His other hand.

Italy was just about to raise himself up to see what Germany was about to do when the most beautiful feeling rolled through his prone body, one smooth breach that made him moan loudly and throatily.

Germany watched his reaction hungrily, his eyes flickering between Italy's face and the finger that was currently buried inside him.

There was no pain, which was strange, because Italy had always thought there would be. Maybe even a little, but no. Germany was so gentle, he seemed to know exactly what Italy could handle and what he couldn't.

In fact, it felt so wonderful that he wanted more. He had thought that one might actually be his limit, his inexperience might kick in there and prevent them from going any further, but all he felt now was achingly unfulfilled, and he knew Germany would satisfy him.

He reached up, his hand shaking and ran his hand through Germany's head, his wide eyes pleading for more.

"Are you...okay?" Germany huffed, still unsure despite that expression on the other's face. "Are you sure?"

Italy nodded desperately, cradling Germany's face in his hand, a small hint of gentle romance among the sweat-soaked tangle that they were. "Please...doitsu...I'm sure..."

Germany nodded, once, impatiently, and readied Italy for another finger. The brown-haired nation squeezed his eyes shut, more out of anticipation than apprehension, and waited eagerly.

The second intrusion made him choke on his pleasure-induced scream, and there was the pain – but it was quick; first it was there and then it wasn't, and then Italy was already forgetting it.

"Italy..." Germany moaned, feeling his release heightening just in the face of the Italian's reaction to the stimulation he was providing.

"Oh! Germany..." Italy's breathing almost stopped as Germany hesitantly curled one of the fingers inside the other, his fists clenching as Italy automatically clenched around the fantastic invasion.

"Germany, I'm not...ah...going to last long!" Italy managed to pant out, and Germany felt excitement curl into a hard, impenetrable ball in his stomach. "Just take me now!"

"It will hurt," Germany warned him, his voice trembling. "You're not going to like it..."

Italy lunged up and pulled Germany into a passionate, heated, wet kiss, their lips roving keenly over the other's, tongues tangling together and exchanging saliva.

"I don't care," Italy breathed, as Germany traced his lower lip. "Let me feel you, Germany. Doitsu, please, let me."

The German exhaled heavily, but pulled back, gently removing his fingers, unable to resist tracing down Italy's thighs with a tantalizingly slick digit. Italy shivered, but managed to smile up at his lover, running his tongue across his lips.

Germany groaned in frustration at this blatant teasing, leaning forward to brace one arm against the rumpled duvet and guiding the tip of his erection to press gently against Italy's entrance.

Italy bucked his hips, forcing himself onto Germany before he could get poisonous second thoughts.

A shriek echoed throughout the room as the sensations raged through Italy's body. The bliss, mixed with stinging remnants of pain, was something that he had never experienced before, and despite the unavoidable latter, he longed to experience again.

Germany, however, was in heaven. Italy was tight and impossibly hot around him, and his frame was screaming for release inside that beautiful nation below him. He waited, however, until Italy had adjusted to his length, before moving – despite his instincts insisting that Italy could handle it.

The amber-eyed country was eagle-spread on the mattress, deliciously bared before Germany, and one lone tear trickled down his cheek. Germany immediately leant down, kissing it away, his voice, despite the obvious tension, gentle and careful.

"Italy, it's okay," he murmured. "Don't feel like you have to."

Italy turned to look at him, looking surprised. "Doitsu...I'm fine. I...it's amazing. It's nothing I ever could've imagined. Don't stop."

Germany stared at him in shock, but obeyed him numbly, pulling away and sitting up again, his chest gleaming wet. He drew back slightly, and then pressed back in, immediately looking to Italy for guidance, but the Italian's face was so ecstatic that Germany didn't doubt that he was telling the truth when he had said he was fine. He did it again, leaving a bigger space before rocking his hips more roughly, and all Italy did was clench the duvet between his fingers, his nails digging into his palm through the fabric.

"Come on..." he breathed. "_Doitsu_..."

"Yes, Italy," Germany grinned, and then he literally _slammed _straight into Italy, his member pressing against the other's prostrate.

Italy cried out, another tear falling, but Germany now understood why he was crying. It was, very simply, the conflicting emotions. He didn't know whether Italy was a virgin or not, but he did suspect that it had been a long time since Italy had done this.

And he didn't even know who with.

Something to ask him later, then. Something new to discover about him.

Italy was arching up to meet each thrust, his hair plastered to his forehead, but his curl standing out proudly. Inspiration coming to him in a flash, Germany waited until Italy shut his eyes again, to better savour the sensation, before reaching out to loop the hair around his knuckles, tugging very gently.

Italy's eyes snapped open, and he yelled out as his orgasm struck. He writhed underneath Germany, unable to process this much pleasure, but wanting as much of it as he could get. As Italy tightened almost impossibly around him, Germany threw back his head and cried out, feeling his fluids shooting out into Italy, his strength almost draining completely.

Somehow, Italy had managed to wind his arm around Germany's neck as his release came crashing down on him, and they were in each other's arms as they tried to get comfortable afterwards. Having pulled out of Italy, both hands clutching the smooth thighs, Germany settled down next to him, pulling him into a sticky but loving embrace. To his absolute delight, Italy responded, burrowing closer and pulling the duvet up and over them, his eyes already fluttering closed.

"Good?" Germany asked, somehow almost fearing the answer.

"Good," Italy replied, smiling sleepily. He glanced up at his lover. "Amazing."

Germany smiled back.

Something to ask him later. Something new to discover about him.

They had forever.

THE END

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**I don't own Hetalia or the two sexy characters you just read about. Thanks for taking the time to look at this, and, once again, happy birthday, GoldenJuiceBox! Go look at her fics. Go on. As a special birthday present. It will make her happy. :)**


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